Speccie pretentious moi by 31st July
 

More prose. Infamy! Infamy! They've all got it infamy!

No. 2809: pretentious, moi?

You are invited to submit a letter liberally sprinkled with evidence of an imperfect grasp of foreign languages (up to 150 words). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 31 July.

Achtung! Ever thought about sprechening a bit of die olden Deütsch? Well it’s highlichë Zeit that you did, mein Fründ! The Zecondvörldskrieg was a long time ago and we should all have fürgiven and fürgoten by now, espezialische because the glorious Färterland has risen from die Ashen to become the Economizchepaüerhaus of Europe. Zair güt! So, if you are really gevanting to succeed in das Modërnβusinessvorld then eine kleine Deuch is pretty much ezzensial, as they say in Minsk. Messcherschmidt! Zeeg heil! Why nicht let our kräck team of language Professiünalen induct you auf the ancient tongue of Wolfgang Schiller and Manfred Mann and before you kennen it you’ll be as fluent in Duetsch as einen Trüenkraut. Gott in Himmel! Aiieee! Box 999 (or should we say ‘Ja, ja, ja’?)*

*No.

Not quite what was meant perhaps, but it deserves an outing.

Mon Cher,
Le Criquet – magique! Zut alors! C’est bon! C’est what your right arm’s for. To bowl le bal, to power le bat, to score les courirs. Fancy that. Mais comme vieux Jacques Crapaud joue, c’est une mystère to moi et vous. Le futbol, oui, le rugbie aussi. Mais lbw et bosie, coupé tard, bal mort, jambe fracture? C’est sanglant ridicule, bien sûr. Le Criquet, c’est un jeu anglais, quelquechose les grenouilles say.
Your vieux mate, John Bull

She was mon cherry, mon savoir-lady-fair. Mysterieux! Hiding behind her nom de plumage, her hair in some sort of je ne sais coif, she sat, sans chemise, around la table nibbling au courants and spooning soupçon. It was coup de food. It was love at first bite. It was chez my house. Enchanté! She parlay-voodoo'd, "Avez-vous faim? Voulez-vous une croque-madame?" Zut allures! I wanted femme, coquette, and madame! A ménage à quarte! But, no, a mauvais quart d'heure, a pièce of résistance threatening to ruin my cul d'état: a mousse! A petite mousse scurrying sur la table from fromage to well-âged fromage. She eek'd, shrieked. I quashed, quelled the horreur, prêt-à-deported it to heaven animaux, and awaited my bonbon. Encore? I give you la petit more: I kiss, we tryst, and the rest is too risque.

Promise me you will enter this in the competition?

I hope Orwn does, but he'd better get word counting. Looks like more than 150 words.

Nope - 136.

Ann, I promise. I was going to send it off this morning but wondered if it was sufficiently like a letter.

Well, you've still got fourteen words to play with if you want to add a sentence that will make it more letter-like.

Letter closure from my high school French book (60 years ago, and I'm not going to bother with diacritical marks):

Veuillez accepter, mon cher monsieur, mes sentiments les plus distinguees.